“I shall still wait.”
“And suppose I urged you?”
“I’d take that as the sign.”
And after the guests went I stayed behind and told the whole story to Annette. So long as there were no clandestine meetings under her roof, she was as detached and sympathetic and non-committal as a chorus in a Greek play.
“Why don’t you give her the sign, if it’s not a rude question?” she asked, while a marvelous succession of ripples circled over her duskiness.
“Because I’m afraid to. Think what it would mean to Cantyre, who’s been so white with me all these years.”
“As well as to every one concerned, including herself and you. I’m glad you’ve enough common sense to feel that. See here, Frank,” she went on, kindly, “you’ve got to pull yourself out of this state of mind. It’s doing you no good. When you ought to be at work for your country, which needs you desperately, you’re sulking over a love-affair. Buck up! Be a sport! Be a man! There are lots of nice girls in New York. I’ll find you some one.”
But at that I ran away.